


The Master of Her Fate

by ModernWizard



Series: Alison Wonderland [1]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who: Scream of the Shalka
Genre: A much happier 'verse than The Accidental Ambassador in which no one is a shit, Ace Master, Asexual Character, Asexual Doctor, Asexual Master, Canon Character of Color, Consent, Consent Issues, Disabled Character, Disabled Character of Color, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Consent, F/F, F/M, Female Character of Color, Gen, Kinky Alison, Kinky Doctor, Kinky Master, LGBTQ Character of Color, LGBTQ Female Character of Color, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Doctor, Past Mind Control, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, This whole series is about consent in a variety of contexts, ace doctor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 03:02:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11500422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ModernWizard/pseuds/ModernWizard
Summary: Alison Cheney, a Black British woman from Lannet, Lancashire, loves words, fairy tales, and, most of all, justice.  A control freak and former barmaid who's experienced racism and sexism, she easily puts weirdos in their place while keeping her cool. But she joins the Doctor for adventure and ends up mentally violated by the Shalka instead. Exhausted and vulnerable, she wants control over her own life again, so she turns to the Doctor's evil robotic spouse . How will she obtain help from someone whose name she finds too objectionable to say?The Master is bored. He has all the arrogance, acumen, charm, wit, and hamminess of old, but, since he can't leave the TARDIS, no audience besides the Doctor. Alison's arrival promises something novel: someone who knows exactly who he is, but still faces him without fear. What can he make of her?





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just days after leaving Earth with the Doctor and their robotic spouse, Alison feels exhausted. She wants some comfort from the Doctor, but overhears them talking to their robot instead. The whole conversation just makes her feel even more alone.

Her second night aboard the spaceship, Alison Cheney learns the terrible truth: The Doctor is married to an evil robot.

As usual, she can’t sleep, not even with several cats tucked around her, demonstrating the fine art of snoozing while contorted in the most convoluted positions possible. She hasn’t been able to since the Shalka, lava snake aliens, drilled a hole into her skull and implanted one of their bugs in her brain. Using screams as precisely calibrated tools, the Shalka overtook Lannet, the armpit of Lancashire, where Alison worked as a barmaid and wondered how her life had gotten so dull. The Shalka seized control of people’s bodies and wills, compelling Alison and others to remake Earth’s atmosphere into one of volcanic gases that the Shalka could breathe. And she, the fighter, the warrior with wit and words, was silenced and dominated, forced to participate in the destruction of her own planet.

Then the Doctor and their robot arrived. The Doctor liberated Alison and, because they also apparently had a magic voice like the Shalka, they belted out a [literally] killer show tune that stopped the aliens cold. Alison offered assistance by repurposing her mental connection to the lava snakes to broadcast melodic death to all two thousand of them. Together, Alison and the Doctor saved the world [no thanks to the robot, who contributed nothing but raised eyebrows and sarcastic remarks]. So now all that remains of the Shalka is a healing scar between Alison’s eyes and her absolute terror of anything, including a stray lock of hair, brushing against her forehead.

With the Earth free, Alison jumped to join the Doctor in their journeys through space and time [even though it wasn’t technically the Doctor who invited her, but the robot, with a sly, backhanded challenge that she’s still not certain why she accepted]. Sure, the Doctor was melancholy, abstracted, and nearly inarticulate when confronted with emotions, either their own or others’. But still...they were the most exciting thing to happen to her since she dropped out of Sheffield Hallam and moved in with Joe, a nice, but kind of clueless, white MD, who earnestly swore that he  _ didn’t see race. _ Though Alison did not know if the Doctor saw race, they certainly saw everything else, even alien invasion, with a stagey sense of humor, energetic abandon, and vast curiosity. Their sense of wonder reactivated her own, so she seized the chance to accompany them.

Unfortunately, though, Alison’s decision failed to take into account the other passenger on the ship besides the TARDIS cats: the evil robot.  _ I am the Master, and you will come to like me once you get to know me, _ he said the first time that they met. Not with a name like that, I won’t, Alison said to herself. But she responded politely enough, though she met his eyes and let a little bit of  _ I can rip your fucking guts out  _ into her ear-to-ear  _ Pleased to meet you _ grin. However, since he was unable to leave the ship, Alison figured that he’d be set dressing -- albeit of the extremely snarky type -- to her and the Doctor’s planet-hopping, time-traveling fun. Then she wouldn’t have to disembowel him, and everyone would be happy.

Such was her assumption until tonight. Again oppressed by memories of the Shalka, Alison seeks out the Doctor, hoping for some comfort and conversation. She knows that Doctor isn’t much cop for either comfort or conversation. But perhaps just sitting next to someone who knew what it was like would make her feel better. So she asks the Doctor’s TARDIS, a sentient machine like the robot [but much nicer], to show her where the Doctor is, and the TARDIS obliges.

A monitor descends from the ceiling of Alison’s temporary bedroom, revealing the Doctor’s bedchamber. This room features wrought iron, cold stone, and a juxtaposition between black and white. Small, maybe four meters square, it seems larger because of the five-meter ceilings. Pure white walls, black trim, and a white bed with black iron posts shaped like leafless trees -- all these details give the impression of a winter field cut from paper silhouettes. The floor is of white marble, flecked with grey and black; crumpled white clothes about the perimeter resemble snowbanks, imparting to the room its only softness.

At the foot of the bed sits the Doctor, flopped forward, one knobby hand tangled in thin, receding hair. With their other hand, they stroke a calico cat who’s purring ostentatiously. They’re as white as the old-fashioned cotton nightdress rucked up around their bony knees. The silvery shadows about their eyes give the sky blue irises a greyish undertone. “I saw them again, Master: all the ones I couldn’t save.” Their voice is light, made for soaring over notes, rather than sinking in grief, as it does now. They let out a huge breath, which turns into a wheezing fit. Wordlessly the robot thrusts their inhaler under their nose; they huff into it, then settle into easier breaths.

“They told me their names,” the Doctor goes on in a low voice. “I heard the songs of their lives, the rhythms of their hearts, the last beats, the sudden caesuras, the final rests, the end of metrical time. Poor players -- brief candles! Their beautiful sound, their brilliant fury, melting into an insubstantial vision... And I remain here, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, strutting and fretting, for their shadows still offend me, and I...I...can never mend.” They wipe their eyes; their shoulders shake. Alison recognizes their fragmented soliloquy as a mash-up of  _ Macbeth _ and  _ The Tempest. _

The robot sits next to the Doctor, back straight, arms crossed, his posture as full of right angles as the Doctor’s is of drooping curves. He covers every part of his body in a black Nehru suit straight out of central casting’s  _ Twentieth Century Dictator _ collection; he’s even got gloves on. Thus the only skin you see is that of his sepia-colored face, from the deep widow’s peak to the angular cheekbones to the pointed goatee. The Doctor is salt, and the robot is pepper -- they go together, balance each other out, and embody the Doctor’s bright and dark aesthetic.

“Of course you saw them again, my dear Doctor.” The robot’s crisp voice suggests that he’s never had any emotions other than exasperation and condescension. “That’s because you’re a sentimental old fool who cherishes pain, rather than avoiding it like a reasonable person. You’re rather like that abomination with which you insisted that I inaugurate the  _ sous-vide, _ only you poach yourself not in water, but in tears. Inhaler!” He pops it into the Doctor’s mouth like a cork into a wine bottle. 

“I thought it’d be different with her, though,” says the Doctor, regularizing their breath again. “Alison… Well, she’s made of sunshine: so sharp and warm and brilliant. And she -- my hearts -- my seeds -- “ As they so often do, they find that language cannot portray their experience. They gesture at their sternum, their two fists opening like blooms. “I thought -- like flowers...”

“Hearts and flowers? How hopeful of you, Doctor. How...human. The young woman will not fix all your problems. We both know that her species is infinitely more adept at creating trouble than resolving it. Besides, she is more than mere sweetness and light. Much more,” the robot says, with a smirk and a nod at some private thought.

“You knew when you met her that she was extraordinary: brave, quick-witted, resilient, a fellow soldier to save the world,” he goes on, his tone dropping to a more serious register. “Now, though, circumstances are different. She is wounded, isolated, and exhausted, running on rage and grief. She wants power; she wants control over her own life again, and she will go to any lengths for it. You would do well to respect that.”

“Hmmm?” The Doctor pulls seed packets from the pockets of their nightdress, arranging them in a patchwork of floral graphics. Jumping from their lap, the calico cat turns three circles, then sits on some seed packets.

“Why do I even bother talking to you? You never listen to a word I say.”

“Was so listening! You said Alison is sad and angry, so she needs sunshine and flowers…” Returning to their seed arrangement, the Doctor asks the calico, “Do you think she’d fancy a lemon tree? I know she likes yellow.”

“She needs power.”

“Solar power…. Ow! Why’d you elbow me?”

“Because you’re a walking daydream.”

“And you’re a walking bad mood. I’m programming some niceness into you one of these days.”

“Do that, and I’ll fit you out with a power button when you aren’t looking. Hmmm...now there’s an idea. It would certainly make getting you back to sleep after your nightmares much easier.”

Alison clicks off the monitor, hanging her head. She thought that the robot, despite his silly name, functioned as the Doctor’s unobtrusive automatic butler. He obviously assumes some of those responsibilities, but he and the Doctor are also equals, partners, perfectly paired, a matched set. She’s never taking a place by the Doctor’s side because that position has already been filled.

Why did the Doctor ever want her for a companion if they already had a spouse? The robot’s right. She has left behind everything familiar, and now she’s light-years from home with two aliens who have no room in their lives for her. She really is all alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alison can't cry, so she goes into the Doctor's library to yell a poem. There's a short flashback with her parents, and then the robot ambushes her.

Alison learned from a very young age that, whether she was happy or sad or angry, she could neither yell nor cry. Jumping around was acceptable, even some occasional squealing. But, no matter what, crying and/or raising her voice brought instant shame, for they meant that she had failed.

Even if the local paper did a story on her doll club, and there she was on the front page of the Lifestyle section, ten years old, holding the first fashion doll she ever did micro braids on, she couldn’t shriek for joy.

Even if she asked why her cabin of four twelve-year-old Black girls was the only one that got demerits for noisiness and the summer camp director said it wouldn’t be a problem if they just quieted down, she couldn’t cry.

Even if her year eleven history tutor took the class to a lecture at Sheffield Hallam on radiographic analysis of mummies, but he didn’t tell her because he assumed she wouldn’t be interested in higher ed, unless it was a secretarial certificate like her mum’s, she couldn’t yell.

Even if she got a scholarship to Sheffield Hallam to study classics and history, she couldn’t go out in the back lot and bellow to everyone who had ever underestimated her, _Yes! Hah! I did it! I_ am _awesome!_

She couldn’t weep or rage because, as her gram told her, _Your mum and dad didn’t save and sacrifice just so you could break down in tears when things didn’t go your way. Life’s not fair, but that’s the way it is, and you’ve got to be tough if you want to succeed. You’ve got the brains; you’ve got the ambition; you’ve got advantages that your mum and I didn’t have, but you need that toughness too. All those looks, all those comments, all those mean things people do -- you’ve got to rise above it. You can’t let it hurt you. That’s what I did; that’s what your mum did; that’s what you have to do too if you want to get anywhere in this world._

Alison’s gram’s words epitomize one of the most insidious traps of her life. It’s not just the idea that, as a Black person, she must do things exponentially better than white people if she wants to be considered halfway competent. It’s also the idea that, because she’s a Black woman, she bears an even larger obligation to overachieve. Her entire family envisions great things for her. Basically, if Alison cries, she fails her relatives and probably the entire Black population of Britain.

And thus Alison stands in the rotunda of the Doctor’s library, buckling under the weight of familial expectations. The library is yet another place of contrast, separated into a nighttime half by which one enters and a daytime half on the far side. The night half has walls of black granite, the daytime walls of glass. The night half is filled with massive ebony bookcases illuminated with wrought iron lily lights, while the glass half contains only slender blond chairs and tables, along with golden trees with miniature lightbulbs for buds. There is deep blue carpet in the near half of the rotunda, pale dawn yellow in the glass half.

 

She clutches one of the few mementos from home that she packed: one of her sci-fi geek mum’s Atomic Age wind-ups, customized by her computer geek dad. The library is one of the few locations in the ship that she can reliably find at this point, and, more importantly, the only place besides her room where she feels safe. She doesn’t feel safe at the moment, though. Instead, she feels like she might explode.

She inhales the close, rich smell of paper, ink, and pigment, intermingled with the grainy smells of the living flower lamps. Sometimes Alison thinks that she has always loved libraries more than books. Her parents teased her for _hiding in book forts_ when she was a kid, but she thought of it as escaping. She read herself out of a world that expected her to be perfect and then hated her, no matter what she did. She read herself into the realms of history and fiction, where she, the intrepid reader, faced everything on her own terms. Libraries, whether the one in her mum’s den or the public ones she grew up in, have always smelled to her of exploration and discovery.

No good -- she still feels like an overshaken pop can about to blow her lid. The wind-up’s sharp edges dig into her fist, so she pries her fingers apart and looks down. It’s a blocky tinplate robot that her parents gave her for her twentieth birthday, thirty centimeters high, with aerials on its head.

Her mum insisted that it was perfect: “It’s the same size as all your other dolls, honey, and it’s pretty much a doll too, just made out of metal. Besides, you can stick your dolls in its arms and do photos for really cheesy movie posters, like _Evil Machines from Mars_ and stuff.”

“Jesus, Elva,” muttered her dad, “would you stop projecting? It’s the kid’s present, not yours.”

“I think you’ve been holed up in the basement too long,” said her mum, referring to the barely controlled chaos belowstairs where Alison’s dad built custom rigs, did case mods, and, according to her mum, _generally made a mess._ “And a computer virus wiped out your sense of fun.”

“No, it didn’t,” said Alison’s dad. “Hey, kid,” he said to Alison, “check this out. I made it spit rainbows. It’s a Pride bot!” He cranked a wheel at the back of the robot’s head, and from its mouth shot red, yellow, blue, and green sparks.

Alison, who had nervously confessed to her parents that she was bi six months before, did a little sitting jig in her seat and clapped. “Eeeeeeeee, so cute!”

“Okay, well, I didn’t get all the colors,” he admitted. “Maybe it’s ambivalent about its sexuality.” He paused, looked up with his head cocked at no one in particular, and mused, “Do robots even have sexuality?”

“Hell yeah!” her mum answered. A tangent ensued about the Maria bot in _Metropolis,_ who provided a neat indictment of mechanical people, women, and sexuality in general.

Alison shakes herself from the memory. If she keeps on like this, she’ll either blow up or melt down. She needs her _Invicta,_ which has been her spell for power since her dad taught it to her when she was six. Technically, it’s _Invictus,_ Latin for _Unconquered,_ and it’s the stuffiest piece of doggerel, all about some white bloke busting out from the pit of despair, thanks to the power of his _unconquerable soul._ He can survive anything because he’s _the master of his fate and the captain of his soul_ [as well as, presumably, the manliest man in the universe]. It may be cheesy, but Alison has made it hers, _Invicta_ being the feminine form of the title, and it works.

 _“Out of the night that covers me…”_ With the first verse, she begins to pace along the equator of the library, where the midnight blue rug underfoot turns to wan yellow. Several cats perk up from where they nap in nearby chairs, wondering if they might get some petting time out of this.

By the second verse, she hits a chanting cadence. As she marches, she sends all her pent-up strength into her legs. The imminence of explosion recedes. Noticing that she will pay them no attention, the cats return to their lounging.

By the third stanza, Alison, though moving briskly, feels almost serene. She has trained her heart into an appropriately submissive rhythm. She has convinced the top of her skull not to fly off in a shower of freaked-out brains. She concludes the third stanza and allows herself a smile. She doesn’t need the final verse; she’s got this all under control. Her name is Alison Clarabella Cheney, and she is invincible.

Alison sits at a blond table on the light side of the library. She winds up her bot, cranking the key in the center of its back. She lets it go on the table, where it waddles a few steps, lights flickering feebly, then pitches over to the side. Its head rolls off, but Alison catches that before it leaves the table.

As she regards her broken bot, Alison fills with fury. This is all the Doctor’s robot’s fault. If he hadn’t told the Doctor that she was made of rage and pain, she wouldn’t have realized how much she was hurting. If he had stayed in the background where he was supposed to, she and the Doctor could be enjoying themselves now. He has what she wants: the Doctor’s attention and a place by their side. More than that, though, he has the indomitable power of someone who has never known violation.

Realizing that she does in fact need to finish her _Invicta,_ Alison fairly yells the last verse:

_“It matters not how strait the gate!_

_How charged with punishments the scroll!_

_I am the master of my fate, goddammit!_

_And I -- fucking -- hate -- robots!”_

She throws the bot’s head as hard as she can toward the black granite wall, hoping for a satisfying collision.

There’s no sound but a muffled slap, as of a baseball into a mitt. The Doctor’s robot steps from the gloom, a book in one hand, Alison’s bot’s head in the other. “Your toy appears to have fallen apart,” he remarks drily. “At suspiciously high velocity. In the exact direction of my face.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alison accidentally refers to the robot as Magister. He purposely calls her Domina. She realizes that he wants her there, which gives her leverage over him.

Alison stares at the robot. The rolling, enunciated sonority of his voice, the slight cock of his head, the half smirk on his mouth, the single hoisted eyebrow -- everything about him reminds her of her favorite Latin teacher. Feared by all for his severity, loved by a few for his relentlessly high standards,  _ Magister _ Nkrumah began each session with a greeting:  _ Salvete, discipuli. Hello, students. _ Everyone quickly learned to respond appropriately --  _ Salve, Magistre! Hello, Teacher! _ \-- or face  _ Supercilium Offensionis, the Eyebrow of Displeasure. _ Her overtaxed mind going blank of all but this image, Alison says,  _ “Uh...Salve, Magistre.  _ I was being good -- I swear!” 

She has always believed Latin, freighted with history, charged with allusive meaning, to be the perfect language for spells. In fact, she might as well have enchanted the robot for the sudden transformation he undergoes. His other eyebrow springs skyward; his mouth opens in a broad grin, turning up the corners of his mustache. He leaves the night side of the library and enters the day, spreading out his arms from side to side.  _ “Salve, mea Domina carissima!”  _ Marking her stupefied expression, he moves back a step into the black and blue, lowering his voice. “Please...don’t be scared. I will not harm you.”

The robot addressed her as  _ Domina. _ She has always thought of the word as  _ ruler, _ with the connotations of  _ dominatrix  _ that are inescapable when you’re into both kink and etymology. So now she’s his  _ dearest ruler [and possibly dominatrix].  _ Fuck.

It’s time to implement the Three-D Strategy, developed over years of  _ brown sugar _ catcalls and perfected during a ten-month stint at the pub:  _ Downplay; deflect; distract. _ “Please excuse me,” she says, keeping her tone light. “I’m so sorry. I truly didn’t see you there, and I thought I was alone. Throwing tantrums with an audience is rather embarrassing.” She tries for a joke at her expense, but all she can think is that he has witnessed her failure.  _ Deflect; distract. _ “What are you reading?”

He looks at the spine.  _ “The Philosophy of Articulation. _ It’s quite a dry treatise, but I must admit that the Khoeiri have a most intriguing perspective on the convergence of verisimilitude and artificiality.”

Okay, well, now Alison’s the one who’s distracted. “Articulation...like...for dolls?” Realizing that she’s about to advance toward him, she checks herself.

 

His smile sharpens with wry wistfulness. “Miniature simulacra of people are the only ones I can control in my current constrained circumstances, so I may as well exploit the opportunity.” He contemplates her bot’s head. “We share an interest, I presume. Given your passion for jointed figures, I am slightly surprised that you  _ fuckin’ hate robots.” _ He mimics her exactly.

The Three-D Strategy was designed for normal human people who actually become distracted, not psychic evil alien super-powered robots who won’t go away no matter what. In this case, it’s time for the more high-powered Ds:  _ directness _ and  _ disengagement. _ You stay calm, calling the bullshit out for what it is. Sometimes you can surprise someone a bit and deflate their self-importance, throwing a spanner into the whole performance.

“Actually,” says Alison, voice clipped and chill, “I like robots in general. You, though… I’m not scared of you; I just don’t like you.” She blurts out: “And, if you really don’t want to harm me, then quit fucking with m-me!” Her voice quavers, so she cuts herself off.

There’s a silence. Then he says softly, “You want to weep, but you cannot.”

“No!” Alison cries. Her fists at her temples, she clenches her eyes shut. “Keep your bullshit psychic mind-fucking powers out of my head. I’ve got my boundaries; I’ve got my dignity, and they’re all I fucking have now. If you read my mind or make me obey you, I’m telling the Doctor to turn this ship around because I’m going home.”

“No…!” Now he is the one to say it, with something close to a gasp. “The Doctor would be most disappointed if you should depart. I...We...They would not have that. And so please rest assured that I will never read your mind nor compel your obedience. I drew my conclusion not from my psychic powers, but my skills in interpreting the nuances of non-verbal communication. I apologize for alarming you.”

Alison lowers her hands from her face and unhunches her shoulders. He confounds her expectations at every turn, and she has run out of strategies. She watches him, her mouth open with perplexity. “Um. Yes. Well. Thank you for apologizing.”

The robot looks down and away in acknowledgment. “Do you find it a burden,” he says after a moment, “being unable to cry? I myself have lost many abilities with my robotification. I do not live, so I do not grow, change, die, and regenerate. I do not eat, drink, sleep, or produce biological fluids. I have been glad to dispense with sweat, nasal mucus, and ear wax, but I have also sacrificed the taste of fresh bread and the smell of a fine cigar.” He may not respire, but he obviously has pumps in his chest that duplicate the sound, for he heaves a sigh. “As for tears… I have not cried since I was very, very young, and it must be with tears as with my freedom. One does not truly desire something unless one has lost it.”

He holds himself, black-clad, on the edge of the shadows. His eyes are only sparks beneath his low, prominent brow, his features as sharp as bare bone. He seems to her a drowned spirit with neither ship nor grave, a Grim Reaper deprived of both the power to kill and the power to die.  _ Poor player, offended shadow, strutting and fretting… _ He is no good and harmless soul that the Doctor could not save, but still she thinks of their Shakespearean lament. The robot, like her, has lost his dearest possession: self-mastery. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s hard,” she says.

He regards her with puzzlement. Her empathy confounds his expectations. “I can fix this for you, if you like,” he offers, displaying the bot’s head again. “Surely this particular machine did nothing to deserve your antipathy.” He’s trying to deflect and distract as well.

“Thanks, but...I think...I can do it myself.” She extends her free hand.

“Here you go then.” Dropping the bot’s head in her grasp, he pauses, then bows. “Farewell, Domina.” He disappears.

After a silent minute or two, a thought surfaces in Alison’s mind. He doesn’t want her to leave. She might be exhausted; she might just have been mind-fucked, but the revelation of his desire for her to stay makes her feel slightly less helpless. What he said to the Doctor earlier tonight was correct. She does want power, and he has given her just that. Now it’s time for her to take control of her life again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alison drafts a companion contract with her terms for respectful treatment and has the Doctor and the robot sign it. The robot offers a few terms of his own. Alison calls him everything but his actual name.

Calling a council in the kitchen the next evening, Alison stations herself in a surprisingly comfortable chair made of a curled, reddish purple tree trunk growing from the floor. Crimson, wing-shaped leaves wave by her ears, and a sweetly sour scent similar to that of lemonade wafts past her nose. Everything is alive in the Doctor’s ship…except, of course, the robot.

 

When the Doctor and the robot join her on their own sides of the square table, Alison says that she requires a companion contract: a document that clearly spells out the expectations for her stay with them. “Most importantly, we’re gonna need like a code of conduct to make sure we’re nice and respectful to each other – all of us,” she says, looking at the Doctor. “You, me, and Merlin.”

 

“Why, my dear Domina!” The robot presses his hand to his chest, a smirk making a divot in his left cheek. “You wound me. I have a name, you know.”

 

The Master of Hamminess and Cheesiness [and probably also Bananas] is playing with her, but Alison fears nothing from him. She gave him countless chances to lose his temper at her last night, and he maintained both his cool and his sense of humor all the way.

 

Furthermore, she has leverage over him. When she saw him and the Doctor on the monitor last night, she witnessed how much the Doctor loved him and vice versa. And that’s her leverage: the robot’s devotion to the Doctor’s happiness. The robot will endure her call-outs of his bullshit because she makes the Doctor happy. Besides, he’s having fun performing for someone besides the Doctor. Anyway, Alison has license to act with impunity. 

 

“I have a name too, my dear Voldemort,” Alison says with airy archness. “But, since you don’t seem inclined to use it, I’m not particularly inclined to call you by that ridiculous title that you try to pass off as your name.”

 

The Doctor snorts with laughter. “You have to admit she’s got a point, Master. I mean, sure – I know you’re the  _ Master of All Matter, Universally, _ but most people are probably like,  _ Uh…well…Master of what?” _

 

_ “Master of Lurking, Smirking, and Weird Eyebrow Maneuvers,” _ Alison supplies instantly.

 

The robot shakes his head. “Every day presents a new challenge to one’s dignity.”

 

“Dignity’s overrated. You could do with less of it.” Leaning back in their chair, the Doctor crosses their feet on the table. A twig in the back of their seat snaps, and the Doctor jumps to their original position. “So sorry!” they apologize to the tree.

 

“And you could do with more. You’ve been wearing the same trousers for three weeks now.”

 

“Well, that would explain why they’re so comfortable.” The Doctor regards their threadbare pinstripe trousers affectionately. Then, pricking up their head, they draw a tubular device from a pocket. “Oh, so that’s where my sonic screwdriver went!”

 

“Back to the contract,” Alison says. “I made up a draft…”

 

“Ah hah!” The Doctor, still rummaging, produces a glass shaker of coppery powder next. “Weren’t you looking for this?” They pitch it across the table toward the robot.

 

“That does it. I’m locking my spice cabinet.” Catching the container in one hand, the robot snaps with the other. At the sound, the Doctor’s head swings instantly toward him. “Doctor! My Domina has a proposal for which she needs your full concentration. Attend!” He nods to the side, directing the Doctor’s gaze toward Alison.

 

“Right! Yes! Thank you!” The Doctor spins toward her. “I’m sorry about that. I suppose by now you’ve realized that I’m either completed zeroed in on something or…uh…not at all. Fortunately, the Master can literally snap me out of it  _ and _ indulge his pathological need to order people around at the same time.”

 

“Truly a beautiful partnership,” Alison mutters.

 

“Isn’t it?” The Doctor misses the sarcasm. “But this contract, though… No one’s ever wanted a contract before. Don’t you trust me?” They look at her, a crease of worry between their brows.

 

“You, yes,” says Alison. “Moriarty here, no. But it’s not really a question of trust. It’s more a matter of transparency and communication. Contracts have all the parameters and expectations, laid out nice and neatly for everyone’s protection and future reference, in a legally binding document.”

 

Shaking his head, the robot snickers. “You think that you can bind Time Lords to Earthling laws? Oh, this will be quite entertaining!”

 

Alison grits her teeth. “I’m going for a morally binding contract, not a legally binding one.”

 

“Alison, morals aren’t really the Master’s idiom,” the Doctor interjects. Putting up their hand, they add in a stage whisper, “He likes to pretend that he doesn’t have any. We’ll just humor him, shall we?” Going back to their regular voice, they say, “If you put it in terms of power, though, you’ve got him hooked.”

 

“Well then… Hey, Lucifer!” Alison lifts her chin at the robot. “I have power over you.”

 

“Do you now? Both the Doctor and I far surpass you in age, wisdom, physical strength, and mental capabilities. What power can you possibly possess that would allow you to overrule that?”

 

“I have my consent.” The piquant citrus scent of the tree chairs comes to Alison again, and she thinks of how the Doctor and the robot described her last night: brighter than the sun, sharper than a lemon. She is tougher than mere sweetness, and she speaks with confidence: “I agreed to come along with you on your trips through time and space. Now I’m only going to stay as long as you treat me with kindness and respect and do everything you can to keep me safe. Because you invited me aboard, I know that you want me here. Therefore you will do everything that you can to make me happy. It’s a morally binding contract because you’re going to be good in order to make me stay.” She glares at the robot.

 

“Oooooh, that’s a nice one.” The Doctor nods. “Makes sense to me.” After a pause, they add, “Of course, that means the Master’s probably going to blow holes in it.”

 

“Your logic might have convinced me,” the robot tells Alison, “were it not predicated on an erroneous assumption. The Doctor certainly wants you here, but I do not. You have no assurance that I too will, as you put it, be good in order to make you stay.” He sneers over those words.

 

Alison puts her arms akimbo. “Stop lying to me -- just stop. My assumptions are  _ not _ erroneous, and you know it, Master of Bullshit.”

 

“Ooooooh.” This time the Doctor’s sound effect goes lower, recognizing and admiring a palpable hit. They look over to the robot to see how he’ll return the volley.

 

Eyebrows up, head slightly to one side, the robot considers Alison with both surprise and calculation. His smile grows curious, his voice hitting a quieter, more measured level. “Very well then. Tell me the truth.” 

 

Alison meets his eyes for every word: “You want me to stay because you’re fucking fascinated by me. I don’t think any human’s ever looked you in the eyes before. No one’s ever told you just how silly your name really sounds. Everyone’s just groveled and cowered, except for the Doctor, who treats you like some weird combination of their spouse and their mechanical toy.

 

“But here I am,” Alison continues, pointing to the center of her breast, “not groveling, not disdaining, just dealing with you like an equal. Being treated like a person is so novel and enthralling that you’re going to rise to the challenge. So yeah – this contract  _ is _ going to be morally binding for all of us.” 

 

The robot’s smirk has been quivering around his lips, barely restrained, as she addresses him. “Indeed?” he responds, and she can’t tell if he’s agreeing sincerely, doubting, or being sarcastic.

 

“Yes.” Standing, Alison braces both palms on the table and leans forward slightly as she faces the robot. She can’t resist playing off his favorite spell: “How much clearer do I need to make it? My name is Alison Cheney, and you will obey me.”

 

“Ah! Of course!” A smile unfolds across his face as if he now understands everything perfectly.

 

The Doctor breaks out into wild applause, springing up so quickly for a standing ovation that they knock their chair’s branches into a flurry. “Bravo, bravo! Or…wait…would you prefer  _ brava? _ Maybe I should jump up and down and whistle instead.” They proceed to do just that.

 

The robot props his elbows on the table and covers his ears with both gloved hands. “I liked it better when you were aristocratic and aloof. At least there wasn’t so much loud flailing.”

 

“That wasn’t aristocratic aloofness, you dolt! That was a twenty-five-year depressive episode. Besides, cheer up – I can still mope like a pro. I spent the morning in the crypt finishing up my sestina cycle on the casualties of the Time War. Let me know when you can proofread it.”

 

“Never.”

 

“Oi, Wizard of Oz!” Alison calls across the table. The robot finally lifts his head. “Are you going to be bound by this contract or not?”

 

“Tie me up,” says the robot, deadpan. “I can’t wait.” 

 

“Sorry, Alison,” says the Doctor with a shrug, “but I think that’s the best you’re going to get from him. That was a yes, by the way -- just an incredibly sarcastic one.”

 

“Awesome,” says Alison flatly. “This is gonna be so much fun.”

 

Alison, the Doctor, and the robot eventually agree on her companion contract. Alison demands three things from her shipmates: respect, honesty, and kindness. In terms of respect, she asks that they consider her will whenever possible and that they abide by her mental and physical limits. In particular, the robot will not read her thoughts or mind-fuck her into doing what he wants. The Doctor and the robot should respect her as an equal, though she is of a different species, color, and gender.

 

In terms of honesty, they must tell each other the truth. She makes allowances for personal privacy and emotional compunction, of course. The robot, however, cannot lie to her under the pretext of protection or entertainment.

 

For kindness, she wants courteous responses to her questions and an assumption of good faith in all their dealings. She hopes as well that they will have patience with both her inexperience and her currently debilitated state.

 

The Time Dorks [there’s no way she’s calling them  _ Time Lords, _ the colonialist and sexist name for their kind] appear pleased with her proposal. The Doctor readily assents. Nodding with such vigor that their head seems loose, they sing a bouncy, wordless melody to themselves as they read her draft. Meanwhile, the robot casts speculative glances at her between paragraphs. Finishing his review, he settles back and folds his hands on the table with the satisfaction of someone who has, yet again, gotten exactly what he wants.

 

Before Alison can draft the final contract, the robot says he has his own terms for her. She might call him  _ the Doctor’s robot, _ for that is what he is, but not a  _ machine, computer, toy, servant,  _ or anything similar. She must recognize his own bodily and mental integrity by keeping her hands off his remote control. She shall treat him as a person rather than an object, with a few special considerations for his robotic nature. 

 

Lastly, she should never flirt with or proposition him or the Doctor. Such ploys, he says, would  _ not only be unseemly and eviction-worthy, but also entirely irrelevant.  _ Alison tentatively seeks clarification on this point. She receives double thumbs up and confirmation from the Doctor --  _ Yeah, we’re aces! _ \-- and a grumble from the robot about  _ atrocious wordplay.  _ Relieved to obviate the subject of Time Dork lust, Alison gratefully accedes to the robot’s requests. The contract is finally signed by all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The robot tells Alison just how cruel, corrupt, and sadistic he and the Doctor are. Alison is unimpressed. He explains about compelled versus consensual obedience. Alison is impressed, since that's a pretty kinky concept. He says what he wants from her. She says what he wants from him.

The next day, Alison ensconces herself at a small table, up against the wall in the night side of the library, at the end of a row of three-meter bookcases. Constructed of nearly black and burnished wood, carven with pilasters of interlocking vines, the cases form a veritable forest, ripe with heavy tomes of knowledge. Tucking up in a chair, she hides from the world with an annotated version of Lewis Carroll’s _Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There._ Several cats join her on various parts of her chair and contribute to the tranquility by promptly falling asleep.

All of a sudden, here comes the robot, his stride swift and sure, his grin as full as a Cheshire cat’s. _“Mea Domina carissima,_ our recent agreement to deal honestly with each other has inspired me to full disclosure. Do let me know when you wish to hear in detail about the my true nature and the Doctor’s.”

 

“Let’s do it.” Alison sets her book aside. The long-haired cat on her armrest gives her an annoyed look, readjusts, then goes back to sleep.

 

The robot moves to the center of the aisle so that flower lights on either side spotlight him to best advantage. Now illuminated with sufficient drama, he begins his monologue, each word pronounced with oratorical precision. “The Doctor and I are everything to each other: worst friends, best enemies, polar complements, inevitable spouses. As renegade Time Lords, we have no great allegiance to the ethics of our home planet or indeed any other. The High Council may send us on assignments, but they leave the execution thereof to us. So we lie, cheat, and steal if we consider it necessary...or merely diverting. We injure; we violate; we kill. The only difference between me and the Doctor is this: They sustain the naive belief that their actions ultimately benefit the universe. I, however, acknowledge that I act for no one’s good but my own.”

 

And he tells her the story of his pre-robotic life with the Doctor with such relish that she starts thinking of the younger, biological version of him as _the villain._ The villain and the Doctor met at the academy as two of the Deca, a clique of the most contemned students. Among these, they belonged to the Marks, a foursome considered the most objectionable of the most objectionable, united only by their common ostracism.

 

The Marks defended one another against outside aggressors, reserving the privilege of torturing each other for themselves alone. The villain, for example, psychically coerced the Doctor into losing their perfect pitch; the Doctor retaliated by convincing their dorm’s ivy to pin the villain in his bed, and so on. A fierce intimacy developed between the two, with collateral damage totaling a score of student transfers, five deaths, several outbreaks of mass nightmares, the collapse of a historically significant cemetery, a gregarious teacher’s sudden retreat to a hermitage, and the appearance of a miniature black hole under the stairs of the secondary dining hall.

 

The villain and the Doctor continued playing even after graduation from the academy. Gaming with people and planets on an intergalactic scale, the villain murdered, mind-fucked, and maimed his way toward supremacy. But he regularly collaborated with entities that escaped his full control. At such times, the Doctor tried their best to save the day, succeeding through a combination of messy improvisation and moral compromises.

 

All that changed shortly after the turn of the last millennium, though. There was a brief but horrible Time War that disrupted time streams across the universe. Toward the end of the conflict, a threat arose to the planet of Gallifrey could have deprived the villain of his Doctor for good. But a universe without the old quack scarcely bore thinking about, so the villain defeated the menace by himself, sparing his Doctor from annihilation.

 

He may have saved his Doctor [and incidentally preserved Gallifrey and ended the Time War], but still he failed. He could not rescue the Doctor’s beloved companion at that time, and she died. Then he too, though gifted with an uncanny, nearly supernatural knack for survival, died in his attempt to save her. Unable to save one companion, the Doctor brought back the other. They gathered together what remained of their villain and turned him into a machine.

 

“Okayyyyyyy.” Alison squints at the robot, glad to have two cats to pet so that she increases her impression of nonchalance. “Why are you telling me this? Are you trying to impress the Domina? --’Cause I’m not impressed.”

 

“I’m telling you this to see what you’ll do with the information.” He pulls out a chair opposite her, sits down, and bends forward.

 

“I dunno.” Leaning back, Alison rejects his assumption of closeness so that she can look down on him. “What do _you_ do with the information that you’re a cruel, miserable, exploitative person who’s ruined so many people’s lives that you’ve lost track?”

 

“I accept it as the inevitable result of my choices, decisions, and actions. I am the Master. I am what I have made myself.” He lowers his eyelids halfway, proud.

 

“Well, hooray for you.” Alison gives him a few slow, sarcastic claps. “But you’re not the Master of Time, Space, and a Bag of Crisps anymore. You can only boss around dolls now, which would make you what -- Master of the Playground?”

 

“No, I am the Master of the Doctor.” His eyes gleaming, he draws his chair closer. “You see -- I once sought universal domination by controlling as many aspects of as many people’s lives as I could. But people only obeyed me as long as I forced them to do so. Compelled obedience, I have learned, has its uses as a weapon of last resort, but it is ultimately an empty power. It empties me because it requires the constant application of my will. And it empties those who are compelled because they have no choice. They have no chance to imbue their actions with belief, interest, passion, or anything of themselves. Thus they become objects.”

She curls up, her eyes squinched shut, hands clasped behind her neck. “Don’t remind me! I’m not an object! I’m a person; I have my dignity. _Tace!” Shut up!_

There’s utter silence, except for the loud burble of several cats, who butt up against her, trying to calm her with their vibration. Realizing that she’s practically in a fetal position, Alison unfolds, strokes the cats, and forces a few coughs just to make noise.

“I...know. I am sorry that I spoke thus, Domina _carissima.”_ All the wrinkles on his forehead pushed up, the robot watches her anxiously, his eyes flicking back and forth as he tries to interpret her body language.

 

“Yeah. Yes. I’m good. I’m okay.”

“Tell me what I can do to help you.”

Alison squirms because he looks and sounds like he actually does care. “You can go back to what you were saying. Really -- it’s okay. Just leave out the objectification.” He practically makes a question mark out of one of his eyebrows. “Seriously -- please -- can we just go back to the story?”

“Very well. I was speaking of the perils of universal domination and the failures of compelled obedience. I have learned that I may achieve dominion not by ruling the entire universe, but by becoming the entire universe for one person: my Doctor. I use persuasion instead of psychic force so that they voluntarily submit to me.” Again he seeks her eyes. “Does this discussion disturb you?”

When she shakes her head, he goes on. “With voluntary obedience, there is neither compulsion nor evacuation. Two selves agree one to serve the other, each contributing their thoughts, feelings, and dreams.” In illustration, he sends his hands together with the clap of a good, strong fit, then interlocks his fingers. “They each give of themselves and become stronger, both by ruling and by serving. There is less danger of breaking and emptying. At best, it is a self-sustaining, generative power, depleting no one.” This time he looks at her with direct, steady gaze, his smile a closed one of contentment.

 

Alison returns the smile, but more quizzically than anything. “Huh. That’s pretty kinky. That last bit was a decent description of a power game where everyone’s playing by the rules and having fun.”

 

“I’m aware.” He nods. “Your species’ codification of their practices in this realm provides a useful perspective on domination and submission.”

 

Alison realizes then that the robot definitely knows what a dominatrix is. Because he’s a word nerd too, he must have the same _ruler/domme_ associations with _Domina_ that she does. This is either really good or really bad. It’s actually kind of reassuring to know that he’s thinking along the same lines, even if she has no idea where those lines are headed. “So you’ve studied it -- them -- us?”

 

“I’ve written books on the subject.”

 

Alison pushes back her chair. The long-haired cat, sensing a possible end to cuddles, tries to adhere to her. “If you’re in any way responsible for _Fifty Shades of Grey,_ I’m going to evict myself right now.”

 

“By no means! First of all, mine were non-fiction sociological titles. Second of all, I have standards.”

 

Relieved that he’s no longer concentrating on her with all that apparently real concern, Alison follows the humor. “Well, good, ‘cause third-rate porn is a hard limit of mine. --So then you’re the Doctor’s universe, and both of you are happy because you’ve got what you want. Neither of you are paragons of virtue, but you’re a lot better than you used to be. But there’s more people in the universe than you and the Doctor. What do you do with them?”

 

“If they treat me or my Doctor well, then I respond how I must to promote the Doctor’s happiness. If they treat me or my Doctor poorly, then I make them suffer.”

 

“And what about me? Why are you paying me so much attention?”

 

“I want to see what I can make of you -- with your consent, of course.” He delivers that line simply, as if it’s self-evident, and she sees that everything that he has said before was but a preamble to this offer.

 

Alison’s heart quickens, along with her breath. A wonderful chill goes down her core, invigorating her, and she does not hesitate, for she has been waiting for this opportunity since long before the Shalka had their way with her. “Right then, robot of mine. So can you help me be the master of my fate, the captain of my soul, and impervious to mind-fucking? And let’s exterminate the Shalka too.”

“Well now!” His whole face kind of opens up and blossoms [hey, the Doctor did say she was made of sunshine], pleasure expanding across his features. “You _are_ going to be my good Domina, aren’t you?”

“If you’re going to be my good...um...robot...person...that I haven’t figured out what to call yet, then sure.”

 

“I will do what you ask, but do not expect me to be good,” he says with a wink.  “--In answer to your question, yes, I can certainly make you into what you wish to become. Please note, though, that your final request, while by no means impossible, is slightly complicated by the fact that it would displease the Doctor. For some reason, they consider all beings equally deserving of life and compassion.”

 

“Yes! _Stupendissimus!”_ _Awesome!_ “Now _this_ is actually gonna be fun! Can we start tomorrow?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alison and the robot have a lot in common. For one thing, they're both complete and utter dorks.

Unfortunately, Alison and the robot start nothing the next day. Alison’s brain, having just survived Shalka invasion, the saving of the world, and several days of negotiation with an evil robot, promptly gives out. Entirely enervated, she sleeps for twenty-five hours straight.

 

She could have slept much longer, but a persistent banging on the door rouses her: the robot, trying to ascertain if she has some condition worse than exhaustion. Throwing a pillow at her door, she, semi-conscious, yells,  _ Tace, Magistre! _ At that, she hears him chuckle and withdraw, satisfied that she can’t be too unwell if she’s using the imperative and vocative forms correctly.

 

When Alison’s functioning again, she discovers that two things have changed. First, the High Council has sent the ship into the Time Vortex. They are expected to wait here, in this sort of singing rainbow cloud outside of the time stream, until their next assignment.

 

Second, the Doctor has sequestered themselves in their  _ jungle, _ the robot’s word for the vast conservatory where the Doctor makes friends with flora.  _ Saving the universe with plants -- do not disturb!  _ says a chalkboard sign on the knob of the door _. _ Peeking through a condensation-covered pane, Alison sees no universe saving in evidence, only the Doctor, prone on the ground, singing Gilbert  & Sullivan tunes, while staring at some sprouts that have barely poked through the soil. 

 

The robot, sounding equally exasperated and fond, explains that the Doctor regularly secludes themselves in such a manner. They go completely incommunicado and return when they feel like it. He supposes that he and his Domina might as well take the opportunity to acquaint themselves with each other.

 

For all that the Doctor and the robot are a perfect pair, Alison discovers that, in some ways, she too has met her match. First there are the dolls. He asks what scale she prefers; she says 1:6 scale, with adult figures of about twenty-eight centimeters. He, who has recently moved to a slightly larger size and a caricatured style for his stop-motion endeavors, proceeds to offload on her his entire accumulation of 1:6 scale figures and parts. She’s impressed by his union of aesthetics and engineering to produce 3D printed people with lively portraits and solid, unobtrusive jointing. He’s impressed by her ability to repaint, reroot, and restyle dolls into Black women with elaborate makeup and intricate hair. Neither of them are impressed with the cats’ interest in stalking, killing, and hiding spare doll heads.

 

Then there’s the dictionary game, where players try to define obscure words while others try to trick them into choosing the wrong definition. Nobody back on Earth plays with Alison anymore, as both her powers of vocabulary and bullshit have no peer in her social circle. The robot, however, considers this the best game in existence. He convinces her that  _ eleemosynary _ means  _ pertaining to tadpoles. _ She makes him believe that  _ lambition _ means  _ illumination. _ By the time they reach  _ zarf,  _ they’re inventing purposely outrageous definitions. Saying that it’s  _ the sound that a dog makes when it’s dreaming,  _ the robot keeps a straight face for about a nanosecond before the two of them crack up.

 

And there’s  _ Defenders of Earth. _ Alison got into the low-budget sci-fi TV serial because her mum grew up on the first series and raised her daughter on the reruns. As for the robot, he spent enough time on Earth in the 1970s to catch the original broadcasts. He blows her mind when he says he has the entire run in his collection, including the lost episodes. She blows his mind with news of the reboot in which the characters curse and refer to sexual relationships. They compare episodes old and new and modify a  _ Defenders _ drinking game. They make etheric blaster noises --  _ bweeble bweeble ZZZZZT! -- _ every time the protagonist Hope puns on her name, the Defender blames plot holes on  _ the destabilization of the quantum chronometrical field, _ or Professor Panjandrum is outsmarted by his robotic lackeys. After four hours, Alison’s losing her voice. The two of them end up marking the show’s trite tropes with perfectly synchronized eyeball rolls.

 

Alison no longer dislikes the robot. She enjoys his company, whether they’re working on miniature things silently in the same room or chatting about word origins. Yes, he is the most conceited person that she has ever met, but he’s also one of those rare few who knows how to truly converse, listening carefully and building on what you say, rather than just yammering on about their own priorities. He’s perceptive, analytical, witty, and wordy. She can talk to him in a way that she can’t with the Doctor, and she understands him because her mind works similarly to his.

 

The robot understands her too in a way that Alison hasn’t experienced since Sylvie. That was her her flatmate and occasional play partner, before she moved in with Joe about a year and a half ago. Alison’s relocation put her an hour away from her doll club and two hours away from the nearest decent gathering of kinky folks. Living with Mr. Didn’t See Race and working for patrons who viewed her as a means to the end of their next pint, she felt isolated and unrecognized.

 

When Alison met the Doctor, she rejoiced. Here was another equally silly and sarcastic person, a literature lover who took frequent flights of fancy, someone who could remind her how amazing the universe truly was. Soon she realized that they saw her sunny brilliance and her lemon sharpness, but not the white-hot power and pain at the center of her star. The robot, though, sees all of her, and he does not condemn or reject her. He empathizes with her. He accepts her. For the first time in Alison’s life, someone looks at her and says that she is good.  


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alison re-injures herself and freaks the fuck out. The robot tries to help her and tells her a fairy tale as distraction.

A mosquito ruins everything. Alison passes the day reading Lewis Carroll, petting cats, and yelling advice with the robot to oblivious  _ Defenders _ characters. Now pleasantly drowsy, she conditions her cornrows, pulls a silk cap down around her ears, and lies back in her bed. A tiny stowaway from her home planet lands between her eyebrows and jabs her in the face. 

 

Instinctively Alison whacks the bug away. A jolt of alarm shoots through her as she touches the forbidden zone: her impaled forehead. Nevertheless, the itchiness of the bug bite necessitates scratching, so she scrapes her fingernails along her forehead.

 

She accidentally rips away the scab near her right brow and shrieks, both from the pain and the eager spurt of blood. Suddenly there’s an extra hole in her head again, and blood is dripping into her eyes. She succumbs to dizziness and passes out.

 

Alison regains consciousness because something is pressing on her forehead -- hard -- right over the hole that the Shalka made. It wants to get inside her; it wants to take her over. “No!” She surges up, ready to escape.

 

There’s a push on her shoulder, lighter than that upon her forehead, more like a warning than an actual restraint. A calm and even voice comes to her ears:  _ “Tace, mea Domina carissima.  _ I am your Magister.” 

 

Alison opens her eyes. The robot sits on the side of her bed, his torso twisted nearly perpendicular to his legs. With his left hand he keeps pressure on her head wound. When he sees that she’s looking at him, he pulls his right hand from her shoulder and shows her his palm in surrender. “Do you have to touch me?” she asks, trembling.

 

“Well, you do need sustained pressure to stanch the bleeding, but certainly you may apply that yourself.”

 

_ “I _ don’t even want to touch me!” Alison cries. “That’s where the Shalka… I don’t want anyone to touch me there ever again.”

 

He pitches his voice low. “I know, Domina  _ carissima.  _ I know. But either you or I must stop your blood loss.”

 

“Get out of my head! Get...out…!” Wrapping both hands around his wrist, she pushes.

 

He doesn’t go anywhere. “Sh sh sh, Domina, sh sh sh. I know that you’re afraid. I know that you feel pain, but I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m trying to help you so that nothing will ever be inside your head again that you do not want there. ”

 

Some part of her heeds, but the rest of her is shivering, her teeth rattling as if she’s not warm enough. “Stop!” She turns her head from side to side, trying to throw him off.

 

He stays with her. “Listen to me. I will keep you; I will guard you; I will protect you. You are safe; you are with me, and you are my good Domina.” Very gently he presses his fingertip against her lips, sliding his thumb and forefinger down till he’s holding her chin.

 

“Oh!” says Alison. When she and Sylvie played, Sylvie touched her face like that. Something about that gesture made the entire world drop away, leaving only Alison waiting for Sylvie. Now, when the robot touches her, everything goes still in the same way. She seizes his wrist and looks into his eyes. 

 

“You’re shaking,” he observes, “but you’re not letting me move my hand.”

 

“Because...um...it’s good. Kinda distracts me from my head.”

 

“Ah. Well then.” He shifts his grip, laying his whole palm along the side of her jaw.

 

“Hmmmm…” Alison turns her head to the side, but slowly this time, into his touch. He may not be biological, but he’s warm, and the fine leather of his gloves is as soft as skin. A gentle silence descends around her, but she still can’t ignore the weight on her forehead. “I need more distraction.”

 

“I could tell you a story.”

 

“No objectification?”

 

“No objectification.”

 

“Then go for it.”

 

He begins to speak, his words sweeping her up and buoying her away like a wonderful swift current: “Once upon a time there was a Warrior who lived with a Villain. The Warrior was a master of truth and compassion, and she used her wit and her words to cut away deceit. Then the light of her hearts shone, and all fear and falsity burnt away. And yet she did not truly understand herself, for she did not realize that she was among the most powerful people in the universe.

 

“The Villain was the Master of Violation and Illusions. He used his wit and his words to overwhelm people and confuse them. When they were vulnerable, he did with them what he wanted, then burnt what remained. He truly understood himself, for he knew that he exploited fear to become the most powerful person in the universe.

 

“The Warrior despised and distrusted the Villain because he embodied everything against which she had fought all her life. But, because they had to live with each other, the Warrior gave the Villain an ultimatum. She said that he must respect her, keeping her safe and whole and happy, or her hearts would burn him until there was nothing left. The Villain said that he would respect her and do as she said, but the Warrior had no reason to believe his promise.

 

“Indeed, the Villain was a liar, for he did not guard the Warrior. While he was neglecting his duty and breaking his promise, dragons seized her. They took her into the underworld to kill her and make her one of them.

 

“He descended after the dragons and found the Warrior imprisoned. She was infected by a spell of illusion that the dragons had set within her hearts. It was a corrosion of lies that convinced her that all her battles had been in vain, all her victories false. Thus the fear spread throughout her. She thought that she was powerless, hopeless, and very nearly lifeless.

 

“Because he was the Master of Violation, the Villain knew both the Warrior’s danger and her salvation. ‘I can restore you,’ he said. ‘I can give you back your power, your hope, and your life, and I will ensure that you are never again taken to the underworld.’

 

“‘What is your price?’ she said. ‘Must I submit to your violation instead of the dragons’?’

 

“‘The light in your hearts is the best thing about you,’ he said. ‘I will never violate you. I would do everything I can to reverse the effects of the dragons’ violation because I never want your hearts to go out.’

 

“‘What sacrifice do you ask?’ she said. ‘Must I become as you are then?’

 

“‘No,’ he said, ‘but you must change. I will be your Magister. You must let me make of you my good Domina. And you must hold me fast and fear me not.’

 

“‘And you,’ she said, ‘must understand this. You are going to be my teacher. I am going to learn from you how to be the master of my fate and the captain of my soul. And if ever again you fail to hold me fast, I will burn you.’

 

“‘I know. I have no illusions about this, Domina,’ said the Magister, extending his arms to her.

 

“The Magister’s Domina put her arms around him. She held him as fast as he held her, and the corrosion inside her melted away. So great was the power of their hold upon each other that they drew themselves away from the dragons and out of the underworld.

 

“As they returned to the mortal realm, the Magister’s Domina looked at him with eyes that saw directly into his hearts. ‘I have no illusions about this either, Magister,’ said his Domina, ‘for I know the truth of who you were, who you are, and who you might become.’”

 

Of all the magical voices in the universe, Alison has already heard two: the scream of the Shalka and the Doctor’s songs. Now she knows a third: that of her robot. Like the Doctor’s, his utterances contain such power that all listeners must hold fast and heed. Like the Doctor’s, his incantations may either ruin or save. But, unlike the Doctor, who sings for the world, her robot speaks to her alone, making her master of her fate, if only in a fairy tale.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor is bouncing off the walls, as usual. Imp the flying cat pesters the robot. Alison explains to the robot why she doesn't use his name, and she gives him another. The beginning ends.

The next day, Alison sits on the kitchen counter next to the robot, swinging her legs and stealing pie filling from the robot’s bowl when he’s not looking. It’s some sort of extraterrestrial fruit with a pudding-like consistency and a rough, dark cocoa flavor, as warm as peppers, but without the sting. In other words, it’s irresistible.

 

He doesn’t appear to notice the dwindling supply of pie ingredients, since he’s busy telling off Imp, his flying cat. Back when he was experimenting with the creation of life, one of his first tests resulted in Imp. She is an extremely small and extremely intelligent black cat with fine bones, large yellow eyes, and functional bat wings. Though she is the only airborne TARDIS cat, she happily hangs out with her ground-based cousins. She returns to her creator only to boss him around. She currently flies around the robot, purring loudly, rubbing her scent of ownership all over his jacket, trying to slip under his hands so that he’ll pet her.

 

“I do not need cat hair in the dessert!” he tells her, gesturing with the knife he’s using to cut the tops off the fruit. Imp, who understands Time Dork speech, responds by cursing him out in a series of crotchety, crackly meows. “Just because I won’t do what you ask does not give you the right to call me _Useless Cat!_ Shoo! I am the Master, and you will… Oh, forget it. That never did work on felines.”

 

“Bother the Doctor,” Alison suggests to Imp. “They’re out of their jungle now! --At least that’s what I presume from the potted ornamental lemon tree that showed up by my door, along with several miniature doll-size ones.”

 

“And here comes the old fool now!” The robot pivots one hundred and eighty degrees toward the kitchen door.

 

“How did -- ?”

 

“Psychic connection.”

 

The Doctor zooms in, soil and flowers shedding from their olive drab coverall, trowels and forks clanking at their belt. “Hello, Master -- Alison!” Their voice is as light and sprightly as their step. “I got the anti-tinnitus tincture working; it just needed a spot of ramplewort. Isn’t that brilliant? I mean -- it’s sort of working. It gets rid of the ringing, but now it only plays electronic trip-hop. Anyway, beautiful evening, isn’t it? Effervescent, iridescent, and evanescent -- ah well, like we all are, being mortal -- with that perfect edge of existential despair.” Perking up, they finally make eye contact with their inevitable spouse. “Say, did you by any chance make up some of those breakfast -- ?”

 

“Thank you for the --” Alison pipes up as the robot lobs the Doctor a hand-sized oblong package wrapped in wax paper.

 

The Doctor catches their meal and speeds for the door. “Thanks, Master! Anyway, must dash -- need to get my angst on -- be in the Epiphany Room -- give my regards to the West End and Broadway -- bye!” They depart, Imp following.

 

Alison watches several pink petals swirl around in the Doctor’s wake. “Epiphany Room?”

 

“It’s an amphitheatre with superb acoustics, perfect for dramatic monologues, soul-searching soliloquies, poetic declamations, and the like. As always, the Doctor does their best cogitation when performing for an appreciative audience, a part that I am often forced to assume.” His smile and wink suggest no duress at all. “Join me sometime. We can make etheric blaster sound effects when they become too hammy.”

 

“Sounds good.” Alison hops down from the counter. “Hey, speaking of etheric blasters, I figured out what I can call you.”

 

“Do tell, for I am heartily tired of you throwing at me the name of every fictional wizard you can imagine.”

 

_“Professor Panjandrum!”_

 

He laughs. “In all seriousness, Domina _carissima,_ I may enjoy _Defenders,_ but I like to think that I’m slightly more than a pompous, incompetent villain mocked by his own creations. Of course, Imp’s existence belies my claim, but still…” He sighs, his smile disappearing. “If you name me after a buffoon, then I know that you think nothing of me.”

 

“Oh shit, robot of mine, no!” Alison claps her hand over her mouth. “That’s not what I meant. I’m sorry!”

 

“If you respect me, then please give me a worthy name. I am the Master, and I do have my dignity.” He smiles again, but it’s lopsided, a bit forced, with a sharp corner. Something about that expression makes her realize that he wasn’t always this way. At one time, he had another name and none of his current self-possession. He may no longer be that person, but the former humiliation drives him still.

 

“Yeah, dignity and respect are key,” Alison says softly, thoughtfully. “I may not have nine lives like the Doctor, and I may not have psychic powers like you, but I’m still a person. I’m a Black British woman who’s dealt with racist, sexist shit all my life, and I have my dignity just like you.”

 

“Yes, _mea Domina,_ you do.” He truly beams at her now, his eyes crinkling up at the corners, as if he has been looking forever for her and finally found her.

 

“Someday I’m going to be the master of my fate. But I am never going to be a master of other people, and no one is ever going to do that to me!” She chops her palms through the air as if they are blades guillotining that possibility. “Non-consensual masters are just miserable, cowardly bigots who kill people’s dignity. Now do you understand why I can’t call you by your name?” Hoping he will, she searches his face, holding her breath.

 

He puts down his knife and traces the edges of his beard with thumb and forefinger, meeting at the point of his goatee. “You have faced cruelty and prejudice from your own species on account of your race and your gender. Those attacks -- they hurt you; they strike you to the core.” He speaks carefully, considering each word.

 

“Yes,” says Alison in a small voice, thinking of how the Shalka struck her.

 

“If I required you to call me by name, then I would hurt you too.” He meets her eyes and shakes his head. “I do not want to do that. And that is the reason for which you propose alternatives.”

 

“You’re right!” Alison snaps her head up. “Wow, you do understand. Thank you!”

 

“You’re...thanking me for my comprehension?”

 

“Well, yeah! I didn’t even have to explain multiple oppressions. You just...got it!” Alison applauds a few times in her excitement.

 

“It is...not a difficult concept.” He’s still giving her a dubious side eye.

 

“Pfffft. Tell that to all the people who wanted me to explain intersectionality,” she mutters. “Anyway...hmmmm...name, name, name…” She hops on her toes, thinking.

 

Turning back to the counter, he peers into the mixing bowl. “You ate all the pie filling!”

 

“No, that’s not good; it’s too long. Hmmmm...Well, if you’re going to teach me how to be the master of my fate and all, how about _Magister?”_

 

“Excellent!” He’d be bouncing himself if it weren’t for his excess of dignity. “But...are you certain? The primary meaning of _magister_ is _master.”_

 

“No, it’s _teacher._ It’s what I called all my Latin tutors.”

 

“Forgive the semantic excursus, but it actually -- “

 

Alison puts her hands on her hips, even though she’s smirking. “Magister! Shut up and obey me!”

 

He bows, chuckling. “Your wish is my command. And you…” He, the robot, the Magister, the person who finally has a name she can use, cups her lower jaw in both hands. “You are my good Domina...aren’t you?” he asks, almost in a whisper.

 

Alison shivers deliciously. “Yeah!”

 

“Good.” Amber flecks shine in his eyes, his nostrils flared, his mouth open, halfway between amazement and laughter. He puts his finger momentarily to her lips like a seal of approval.

 

Alison falls silent, moving down into tranquility. For a moment, the blitzkrieg light of rage yields to a stiller flame. It’s been so long since anyone touched her thus, and no one has ever looked at her with such wonder. You don’t know how much I’ve wanted this, she thinks. If you hurt me, I’m going to kill you.


End file.
